


Deep when the river's high

by softwinds



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Gay Sex, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Road Trips, a tinge of existentialism, fluff (I think so)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softwinds/pseuds/softwinds
Summary: They drive down I-55 with the taste of winds on their tongues, then switch to I-40 at Memphis. The ground is flat, tamed and trimmed; the Jinn feels as if they’re riding across a giant frying pan, which isn’t too far from the truth.-Salim leaves Cairo with the Jinn. Love is a funny word, and they both know it.
Relationships: The Jinn | Ifrit/Salim (American Gods)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Deep when the river's high

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I binged American Gods last week and really wanted to write abt these two. This is kind of a departure from my usual works & unbeta’d but I hope yall enjoy. Title from [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISUY-O-862Y) by The Dead South 
> 
> cw: mild religious theme, very mild spoiler of S3

They drive down I-55 with the taste of winds on their tongues, then switch to I-40 at Memphis. The ground is flat, tamed and trimmed; the Jinn feels as if they’re riding across a giant frying pan, which isn’t too far from the truth. When they reach Little Rock, the sky is almost dusking. They make a stop near an exit for Salim’s Maghrib prayer. There hasn’t been any roadblock along their way— which is odd, considering the state of things, and the Jinn relucts in attributing it to either luck or Allah. 

“You finished?” He asks as Salim begins rolling up his prayer mat and traces his route back. The man can certainly use some reassuring words, but the Jinn’s never been good at this sort of thing. Salim nods, smiling self-consciously. The sun gilts his hair yellow like an ibex. “Want some water?”

“Yes,” so the Jinn reaches into Hildisvíni’s tail box. “Please.”

Salim settles back into the sidecar and puts on his sunglasses. He sighs, almost contentedly, having been able to stretch his legs for a few minutes. The Jinn watches him screw open the bottle of water— Nestle, one of Mr. World’s greatest projects yet— and connect it to his mouth. He drinks slowly and without a sound. 

Salim is an ordinary man, but he does have pretty lips. _The Jinn would know._

The Jinn does not say it, though. In fact, he soon buries the thought deep under; it fuels the tiny sparks of an ego, that he’s able to inadvertently best the universe in marking something as his own, and that _something_ is desirable no less. He’s learned to leave that ego fallow. “It will be dark soon,” The Jinn states. “We can find a diner if you’re hungry.”

“Do not worry about me. It’s unwise to rest now,” Salim turns to him, brows dropping, teeth dragging his lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not feel guilty for Grimnir’s doing, the old dog’s ready to shove us all down if his boiling pits need fuel.” 

“And I’ve made it worse for you. Yesterday you were among your cohorts. Now we’re running from the _FBI_.”

“Yes, and a month ago I was driving up 6th Avenue so that people could go see _man dressed as giant mouse_ ,” the Jinn replies. “At least no one’s shitted behind my seat yet.”

Salim’s throat moves, but he does not continue the topic. Instead, his hand shifts off his lap and gingerly moves up, until it presses against the Jinn’s fingers. Something coils in his rib cage, like the traces of a reverie, or the comfort of drifting into one. He felt the same thing when their hands first linked in the hotel elevator, except at the time their skins weren’t harbored by riding gloves. 

“I do not say love lightly.” Salim breaths. Although a certain answer paces eagerly at the back of his mind, the Jinn fails to escape the easy silence. He threads his fingers between Salim’s and brings them to his face. The leather is cold on his cheek, and the man freezes in place. 

“Get some granola bars the next time we stop,” the Jinn retrieves his hand. “Read the ingredients first, these sons of bitches put anything in there.”

He twists the key in Hildisvíni.

“Do you eat?”

“I reinvigorate in more than one way,” the Jinn replies. It takes Salim a few seconds to get the innuendo, and the Jinn feels those sparks again when the man futilely tries to push down the corners of his mouth.   
  


They stay that night at an Econo Inn by the edge of Arkansas. Salim kisses him, fingers tightly gripping his motor jacket as if to keep him from drowning. The Jinn glides his hands down to unzips their jeans. Salim’s sweater— the one used to hang on Ibrahim bin Irem’s shoulders— softly frets against his lower belly. He undresses them both. The room smells like cigarette butts and air freshener spray, but his companion smells faintly like soda ash and linen from Thoth’s parlor. 

The Jinn prepares Salim carefully, until the thighs beside his hips are shaking and the man’s nails dig into the sheets. They’ve done this a few times. His cock is eager and heavy from anticipation. “You’re staring,” the Jinn observes. “Does the fire frighten you?”

“No— a bit at first,” Salim holds out his arms to tug him closer, until the Jinn can see his reflection on the man’s pupils. “It’s no fire of Jahannam.”

The Jinn laughs. “You’re more sure about that than me.”

Salim comes with both knees braced against his chest, his head and neck pulling back like the arch of _Aydi ath-Thuraya_ against desert skies. His cry is blissed yet stifled. The Jinn picks Salim up by the waist and pulls him into his lap, thrusting until each of his movements knocks a sound out of the man. Salim comes again, louder this time, his eyes large and dilating, shoulders covered in thin sweat. “I love you.” He gasps.

The Jinn circles his thumb near the small of Salim’s back. feeling the muscles pulsating beneath. He starts once more, slower now, until the indescribable sensation overwhelms and winds through his body like the scorching Simoom. Salim limps against the sheets, watching him in awe. The Jinn wonders what he sees— do albarellos gaze at flames in their kiln, do mountains notice bonfires by their hills— but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he only leans forward and ensconces his curiosity on the man’s tongue.

Salim prays before midnight while the Jinn’s sitting in bed, flipping through a map brochure. He drops it aside when Salim lays down besides him, face resting against his arm. 

“Please hold me,” the man says. “That way I’ll know if you decide to leave.” So the Jinn kisses his hair and obliges, until he hears purr-like snorings. Their limbs are tangled when it’s Fajr again.

  
  


There are more trees as they approach Texas. Pines and oaks, mostly, stand unmoving in the sun like they’re shrouding secrets. At some point the trees become sparse again, and they’re back on top of an edgeless plain riding along concrete-casted veins and stria. The wind’s too strong for talking, and the Jinn begins to wonder what’s going through Salim’s mind. He’s not usually the sentimental type, but these haven’t been his average days, not since New York. 

They stop at a small diner without camera surveillance. Light and shadow pass through the blinds and prance across the table; Salim’s face seems almost delicate among them. It would be so easy to reach out and run his thumb across the man’s jaw— the Jinn finds that thought increasingly tempting. So he does, when the waiter’s looking away; light stubbles gently rasp over his skin like dune sands. His finger brushes near Salim’s bottom lip. He wants to kiss him and feel the man’s breaths melding with his own like they’ve done before within chalk-colored walls; but the Jinn isn’t sure he should. He’s never been good at this sort of thing.

“You’re beautiful.” Salim smiles. “Hope you’re not tired of hearing this. I say what’s on my mind. My brother in law said it could be annoying.”

“Your brother in law can suck it.” He says, still cupping Salim’s cheek. 

  
  


Many things aren’t real, despite the belief of certain crowds, aren’t actually real. Black eyed kids, ghostly hitchhikers, tooth fairies, prosperity gospel— Money keeps a tight grasp on their dominion— haven’t gathered their forms. Meanwhile, some others do walk the earth, brewing tea and coffee, feeding coins into vending machines for cigarettes and salted peanuts. The Jinn recognizes _Barbara Allen_ in the motel lobby. The leannan-sith waves at them, sending her companion away with all her suitcases and no indication for his fate.

“I heard,” she softly says. “About the leprechaun. Truly a tragedy. Were you there when it happened?” She corks her head to eye at Salim. “Who is this? You look familiar, my poor boy…”

“Greetings to you too,” the Jinn pulls Salim to his side before he willingly offers up his name. “But we don’t have time for chitchatting.”

“I see. Lover’s escape?”

“Something like that.”

There’s a crow outside their window, rattling when the Jinn opens the curtains. He knows that Wednesday’s watching: the old gods’s war still calls for his endless servitude.

He closes the curtains and ignores the cawing. Salim sits behind him on the edge of the bed, taking off his coat and folding it neatly on his thighs. 

“ _Lover’s escape_?” He hums, with a guileless look across his face. He seems happy.

“Yes,” the Jinn replies. “Something like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u for reading this! Kudos and comments are so appreciated <3


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